(I don't own anything except what you don't recognize.)
She had never been the favorite. No, it had always been her.
She had always been smarter. She'd get the prettier dolls when we could still afford them, and the first picking for rags later on. She could read better.
She delivered the letters. I'd be scrounging for food, or keeping the bridge from leaking, or doing something. It always felt like nothing compared to her excitement. Sixteen and already in love with a handsome university student. In love!
And later on, when push came to shove, I'd be the one on the streets at night, searching for customers.
I'd be the one he'd give, a sort of prize to close a deal with, for the night. It had happened many a time, even with the Patron-Minette. First it was Claquesous, then Babet, and then the others in some order I can't remember right now. I've probably seen them all at some point.
And now she's dead.
Not that it's much of a surprise really. She should have realized what she was doing, following that stupid fool around and whatnot. She didn't have to go get herself killed. Then again, neither did Gavroche. Sadly enough, he had more sense than she did. Or at least from what I can recall. Come to think of it, I never really knew him that well.
He (I've refused to call him my father, after everything) is going through the corpses. I'm not very surprised by this either.
The smell is unbearable though. All the gunpowder, the burning wood, the slight smell of decay as bodies rot in the Summer heat. I throw up. I guess I should have seen it coming.
I haven't bled in months, and I've been feeling strange for a while now. I suppose I should do the right thing and get rid of it. Heaven knows it would be one less mouth to feed.
But I can't.
That is unexpected. Why should I care about something I've never seen? Something that's just an outgrowth, like a blemish, when I don't even really care that my sister died. But, it feels like more than that. It's odd.
I can't go to America. I just can't. If he didn't make me get rid of it, I'd loose it in the voyage, or we'd both die. Once he falls asleep, I'll have to act.
I thought he never sleeps, but thankfully he snores. I take the money that he's got from pawning of the dead people's things, and I run. I hop aboard the nearest wagon heading out of the city.
Rouen. I'm now far enough where no one will find me. Odds are they probably never looked very hard for me anyway. Well, they might have tried. I still have the money, after all.
I've decided to become a seamstress. The embroidery lessons I had when I was younger might pay off now, if I could remember any of them. I suppose I pick it up as I go along. What's a few sloppily made shirts to a bunch of farmers anyway?
The townspeople buy my story. They sympathize with the poor, young widow left in such a delicate condition, and they find enough kindness in their nosy hearts to drop by and interrogate me. They have nothing to offer of course, just a friendly visit, and they never seem to take a hint. The bump is growing bigger. I hope more than anything that it is a boy. A boy would never have to do the things I did. A boy would have more atvantages, more mobility, more opportunity.
It burns, and stretches. And hurts in so many, unimaginable ways. I can't even think straight. I hope someone can hear my screaming, I won't be able to do this alone.
So much for the miracle of life. A doctor I can't even afford to pay for seems to have come to give me nothing but bad news. He says the child must be strong, for the cord could have strangled it, but he may still be able to live.
It is ugly, so ugly. I had thought it dead first, but it screamed so loudly, with such conviction, we were forced to acknowledge its life. It is skeletal and blue, the flesh on its face seems to have been eaten away at parts, like the corpses at the barricade. Even the nose is missing. It has a few tiny wisps of inky-black hair, but they only seem to frame its face and accentuate its horridness.
I'm holding it. I'm obligated to, no one else will touch it, not even the doctor. He has been going on a long tirade about how I should have had proper nutrition while it was developing, and avoided overexertion (and how exactly could I have done that at the time?). I've stopped listening to him It's staring at me.
It's gaze is so penetrating. Almost like it knows I already can't stand to hold it.
I wonder why it (him, the doctor reminds me. It is a person of sorts after all. Though if he cares so much, why won't he look at him?) has yellow eyes. Aren't all newborns supposed to be endowed with baby blues?
It's not jaundice, they're just naturally golden.
When the darkness lifts, I turn off all the candles. I can't deal with any trick of the light now.
I bring my child close to the window, towards the rays of sunlight.
It has two empty sockets where the eyes should be.
I hadn't expected that.
(Well, I hope you could guess who the baby grows up to be. It's a little vague.
I just noticed that people just pair Eponine/Erik sometimes because they're both French from the nineteenth century. But, Les Mis was 1832, and I assume Phantom was set in the 1880s. Erik is supposed to be fifty or so, so he technically would be young enough. I know some things aren't accurate or in character. It's late, and I'll fix this later. I hope you enjoyed reading this. Please leave a comment even if you didn't.)